


something new

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Natasha Romanov, Butt Plugs, Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, I'm Going to Hell, JFC, Kink Negotiation, Lesbian Sex, Natasha Romanov Feels, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Overstimulation, POV Natasha Romanov, Sex, Sex Toys, Smut, Soft Natasha Romanov, Strap-Ons, Team as Family, Vibrators, and to think i used to be a mormon, flustered wanda maximoff, my hand slipped... or whatever, natasha being a little shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Wanda pulls away from a heated make-out session to gasp out, “I want to try something new.” Her voice is breathy, pupils blown wide with lust, and the way she’s looking at Natasha… like nothing else matters except for her; like they’re the only two people on this earth.Natasha smirks up at Wanda, propping herself up on either elbow and tilting her head ever-so-slightly to communicate her interest. “Oh?”“It is, um… ” Wanda trails off, worrying her lower lip nervously between her teeth. “It’s kind of, well—I do not want you to feel obligated, or anything, but I have just been thinking about it this past week, and I—"“Wanda,” Natasha chastises gently, leaning up a little further to nudge Wanda’s nose with her own. “Breathe.”Wanda huffs out a breathless chuckle, cheeks tinged with pink. “Sorry. I… I suppose I am nervous.”
Relationships: Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Wanda Maximoff & Steve Rogers, Wanda Maximoff/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 9
Kudos: 177





	something new

**Author's Note:**

> so someone dm'ed me requesting this and,,,,, yeah. um 
> 
> look at the tags before you read. *all* of them pls
> 
> if you know me irl and saw this, no you didn't❤️

For an endless number of inexorable reasons, Natasha thinks that Wanda Maximoff might just be the most enthralling creature she’s ever known. 

She’s biased, of course, but she doesn’t see why that should make it any less true. 

There’s one aspect in particular that’s caught her fancy as of late (even more so than usual): The utter lack of discipline she wields in most everything she does, the fact that she is tumultuous and unrestrained and endlessly open about who she believes herself to be and what she expects from those around her. 

In any other context, Natasha might consider that a weakness. 

In any other context, it _is_ a weakness. 

It’s large part of what makes her so vulnerable despite the sheer magnitude of her power; it’s part of what keeps Natasha up at night, her chest tight with the ice-cold fear that some day it’ll get her killed. That one day Natasha will be crying silent tears over Wanda’s lifeless corpse, kissing grey lips that remain motionless beneath her own, begging for her to come back like she’s never begged anyone else before because she doesn’t think she can _do_ this if Wanda isn’t here. 

And still, it’s something precious beyond measure all the same. 

It’s like a flower—fragrant, exquisite, _fragile_. 

Beautiful in such a way that’s wholly impossible to emulate, heady and rare. 

When she smiles, there’s nothing premeditated about it. When she clambers atop Natasha’s lap and flutters those long lashes up at her, pretty blue-green eyes suffused with naked _want_ , there’s no secondary motive to unearth. 

She’s blessedly simple—her actions are what they are, and consequently, as is she. There’s little (if anything at all) to decipher. (Though in many ways, that seems to make the whole thing a great deal more befuddling to someone as well-versed in duplicity as Natasha.)

There’s no one else she’d let wield control (or at the very least, the illusion of it) so liberally in the bedroom, because Wanda likes bending to Natasha’s iron will well enough when the opportunity presents itself, but it’s nothing compared to the high she gets when it’s the other way around. Natasha should know; she’s made a living sussing out people’s basest desires, and Wanda’s are nowhere near hard to guess. 

It took months for Natasha to let her try anything beyond what would be considered (relatively) conventional during intimacy. Because sure, she could’ve all too easily gone willfully along with anything and everything that Wanda desired, all the while hiding her own discomfort in the interest of avoiding conflict. 

Heaven knows she’s been made to submit herself unto a plenteous number of debasements over the years (as sex was all too often the most efficient way of exacting information from high-caliber marks). And while the demand for that particular technique had diminished somewhat since defecting to S.H.I.E.L.D., it had never by any means grown obsolete. 

Her body is not her own; she’s abided by this rudimentary truth for longer than she can reasonably recall. 

And yet, there’s just something about Wanda. 

She knows the young witch would be absolutely _crushed_ if it ever came to light that Natasha had willfully submitted herself to this self-indulgence at Wanda’s mercy without being entirely transparent about the implications it would hold for her. And perhaps it’s pathetic that she’s grown disillusioned enough to believe that something so trivial as her own contentment could possibly hold this much meaning, but she doesn’t do it for herself. 

It’s for Wanda’s sake, not her own. (At least, that’s what she tells herself.)

Not only that, but she’ll admit there’s a part of her that knows it’s better this way. On some achingly fundamental level, she understands that this—what she has with Wanda—is inherently more than any other affair she’s ever weathered, and subsequently, she finds herself unavoidably inclined to treat it as such. 

No matter how much her body tells her differently, she knows it’s a testament to the sheer measure of respect and meaning she stakes in their relationship that she trusts Wanda with these truths—no matter how ugly they may be. At a certain point, it becomes less a matter of what Natasha thinks Wanda deserves, and what Natasha has to let Wanda decide for herself that she deserves. 

Natasha would give her the world if she could—if only it were hers to give. 

So right now, she’ll settle for making Wanda smile and sharing even the ugliest pieces of herself (no matter how foreign to her that may be)—giving as much of herself as she can to someone she fears has already gotten far too close to be healthy. 

All that’s left for her to do is hope that it’ll be enough. That the two of them can _make_ it enough. Together. 

— — 

Wanda pulls away from a heated make-out session to gasp out, “I want to try something new.” Her voice is breathy, pupils blown wide with lust, and the way she’s looking at Natasha… like nothing else matters except for her; like they’re the only two people on this earth. 

Natasha smirks up at Wanda, propping herself up on either elbow and tilting her head ever-so-slightly to communicate her interest. “Oh?”

“It is, um… ” Wanda trails off, worrying her lower lip nervously between her teeth. “It’s kind of, well—I do not want you to feel obligated, or anything, but I have just been thinking about it this past week, and I—"

“Wanda,” Natasha chastises gently, leaning up a little further to nudge Wanda’s nose with her own. “Breathe.”

Wanda huffs out a breathless chuckle, cheeks tinged with pink. “Sorry. I… I suppose I am nervous.”

“It’s just me,” Natasha assures her, rising to plant a feather-light kiss upon her lips before promptly retreating. “You can tell me anything.”

Wanda’s eyes are hooded, chin tilted down toward Natasha—leaning into the contact that’s no longer there. It’s almost enough to make Natasha take pity on her and surge up for another kiss… almost. 

“Talk to me, Wanda.”

Wanda inhales deeply, as if steeling herself. When she finally manages to speak, it comes out in a rush (such that Natasha almost doesn’t quite catch it): “Iwanttofuckyourass.”

Natasha cocks a single brow. Oh, she can definitely have a bit of fun with this. “Run that by me one more time? Maybe a little slower?”

Wanda’s crimson blush spreads until it reaches the tips of her ears. “I, um… I want to… "

“Yes?”

“Fuck your… ass,” Wanda manages to choke out, sounding by all accounts rather pained. 

Natasha hums indulgently, feigning casual indifference. “With what?”

Wanda nearly chokes on her own tongue. “I—Um… with the strap-on.”

Natasha pretends to consider it carefully for a moment or two. “Okay.”

Wanda inhales sharply. “Okay?” she repeats, disbelief apparent in her hushed tone, the patchy scarlet tinge bleeding rapidly from her complexion. 

Natasha lets herself collapse back onto the mattress, practically preening (internally, of course) at the way Wanda’s heated gaze seems to devour her from above. “Have you done your research?” she asks calmly. 

Wanda’s bright-red blush returns in full-force. “Y-Yes, I started last weekend.” 

Natasha smirks, nodding for her to continue. 

“A-And I ordered a bottle of the, um, personal l-lubricant from Amazon—"

“Oh? So sure I’d say yes, hm?”

Wanda’s eyes bulge at the insinuation. “Wh—No! I… Of course not, I just—Steve told me it was best I be prepared—"

“Oh, wow.” Natasha has to stifle a full-bellied laugh from escaping her at that, her chest burning with the effort of keeping her amusement contained. “You asked _Steve_ for advice about _anal sex_ ?”

Wanda groans, lowering herself to bury her head in the crook of Natasha’s neck. Her cheeks burn hotly against Natasha’s throat, and Natasha finally lets the broad smirk she’d been fighting overtake her features. 

“You have to tell me _everything_ ,” she insists, pitching her voice to carry well over Wanda’s embarrassed whines. “What did he say? He probably went red as a tomato.”

“Natashaaaaaa,” Wanda complains, speech muffled against Natasha’s neck.

“God, I’d have paid to see that. How uncomfortable would you say it made him on a scale of 1-10?”

Wanda shakes her head. “You’re worse than Clint.”

Wait— _Clint_ ? “You told _Clint_ about this?!”

— — 

They agree on a night to try it—Thursday, before they’re swept up into a weekend chock-full of family-friendly Avengers fun (at Steve’s behest, of course). 

Natasha prepares accordingly—cleans herself meticulously, refrains from eating anything too heavy, and (last but not least) thanks past Natasha again for having the foresight to get laser hair removal _everywhere_. 

It’s been a little while since she’s taken anything more than a finger or two back there, so she’s worked dutifully to stretch herself over the past few days. She spends the greater part of Thursday afternoon and evening with the not entirely unpleasant burn of a medium-sized plug stretching her puckered hole. 

By far the most enjoyable part about it all, however, is the profound effect it has on Wanda. 

Directly on the heels of her late afternoon shower, she leans herself over the counter and carefully reworks the plug (topped with a round pastel-pink jewel) between her cheeks. The intrusion, relatively small as it may be, makes her gasp and whine—though she’s careful to keep it quiet enough that Wanda doesn’t hear from where she lounges upon Natasha’s bed scrolling idly through her phone, none the wiser unto Natasha’s… predicament. 

She doesn’t bother with a towel, just washes her hands and walks out nude, droplets of glistening water beading her milky-pale skin. 

Wanda’s wide-eyed gaze immediately glues itself to her as she traipses around the bed and over to her dresser, feigning indifference. 

Still, it isn’t until she opens the middle drawer and bends herself daintily at the waist to 'search’ for a pair of panties that she hears it—an unintelligible sound like a cat being strangled, high-pitched and choked. 

She suppresses a knowing smirk, feeling her face flush pleasantly beneath the weight of Wanda’s scrutiny even while she makes a show of continuing her perusal of garments as though entirely unbothered. 

Wanda’s heavy silence is like a brand upon her skin.

A second later, she settles on a lacey black pair and fishes it out with a hum of contentment. 

She bends a little further at the waist under the guise of stepping into the panties, pulling them up her legs, and Wanda breaks. 

“Natasha,” she says, a faint note of warning to her strained tone. 

Natasha continues tugging the underwear up her thighs, does a little shimmy as she works them over the considerable swell of her pale hips. “Hm?”

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Natasha counters before turning to face a flushed Wanda sitting cross-legged atop the bed, brows raised. “I’ve just had a shower, and I’m getting changed.”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Wanda shoots back, righteous indignation coloring her words.

Natasha feels her lips twitch, unwilling to concede any ground. “Aren’t you supposed to be training with Steve right about now?”

" _Shit_ !"

— — 

Quarter ’til midnight finds Natasha in the kitchen space of her quarters, perched cat-like upon the granite countertop. It’s quiet; comfortable. She wears an oversized black AC/DC sweatshirt (stolen from Tony’s closet), the same pair of lacey black panties from earlier, and nothing else. 

There’s no music, but she prefers it that way. She sits cross-legged, her laptop balanced on her thighs, a lukewarm mug of mint tea beside her. 

She’s doing some research into a well-constructed front for counterfeit medicine (off the books, of course) supervised by… well, she hasn’t quite sussed that part out yet, but she has her suspicions. She’s back-tracing a string of large bi-monthly payments through offshore accounting spanning as far back as five years previous when she hears it—a faint squeak of rubber from the hallway; the telltale sound of Wanda’s sneakers on lacquered concrete flooring. 

Five seconds later, the front door slides open with a low hiss as FRIDAY grants her access. Less than a second later, Wanda trudges in looking rather worse for wear—a crease between her perfectly-shaped brows, a hard set to her angular jaw, sparks of crimson flaring in her eyes.

She looks irritated, drained, _frustrated_ —and Natasha knows that this can go one of two ways. 

Either she’ll sulk her way through her nightly routine before collapsing face-first into bed for a heavy 8+ hours of sleep, or the exact opposite—she’ll pace rapidly back and forth, scarlet energy swirling around her twitching fingers, white-hot anger tearing at the frayed edges of her restraint until it’s all she can do not to hex-blast everything around her into dust. 

In the case of the latter, Natasha knows a variety of ways to bring her back successfully from the cliff’s edge of delirium—talking through it (though admittedly that’s a somewhat rare occurrence), no-holds-barred sparring in the gym… sex that gets a little (or a lot) rougher than usual, primarily on Wanda’s end.

Natasha carefully closes her laptop and sets it aside as Wanda makes a beeline straight for her. “Wanna talk about it?” she asks evenly (though she suspects she already knows the answer). 

“No,” Wanda says shortly. 

When she reaches the countertop, her hand is already reaching to curl around the nape of Natasha’s neck and pulling her in for a bruising kiss—hot and wet and messy; in other words, precisely what Wanda needs right now.

Natasha, for her part, is more than content enough to allow herself to be devoured. Wanda’s inexperienced tongue plunders her mouth like she owns it, lashing against her own in a series of combative motions that makes her head spin. 

Wanda’s uncharacteristically impatient, squeezing her hips and tugging at the hem of her hoodie and groaning into her mouth like it physically pains her to have these barriers between them. It sets Natasha’s very being alight with an igneous desire, eating away at her more well-mannered sensibilities in a torrent of liquid heat, and Natasha has never been more willing to let it ravage her.

“Bedroom?” she manages to pant out between kisses, and Wanda’s eyes _burn_ with a blood-red hunger that cuts Natasha to the very bone. 

_Guess that’s a yes, then_.

She’s not at all surprised when Wanda yanks her forcefully off the countertop in lieu of verbal response, guiding Natasha’s legs to wrap tightly around her waist. A combination of magic and Wanda’s own lean strength (developed after months of relentless training) works in tandem to keep Natasha steadfastly in place as she turns on her heel and sets a brisk pace over to the bedroom, Natasha in tow.

Natasha’s head swims as she loses herself in kiss after heated kiss, drowning in the unique taste of Wanda—spearmint gum and sweat and and traces of coppery blood from Natasha’s lower lip that bleeds where Wanda bit it. They shed various articles of clothing along the way—Wanda’s T-shirt and bra, Natasha’s hoodie, each of Wanda’s sneakers followed by her socks.

It’s not quite a shock when Wanda’s grip on her thighs suddenly vanishes and she finds herself tumbling back inelegantly onto the mattress, but it’s as close as she’ll ever get to one; she’d been so wasted off Wanda’s kiss that she’d neglected to track their progress from the kitchen to here. 

Either way, she doesn’t linger on it for very long. 

Wanda hastily shucks her black joggers off into a pile on the carpet but leaves her panties on—tiny black boyshorts that double as a harness; Wanda’s favorite for nights like these.

A thrill of excitement flares in Natasha’s chest, and she leans willfully into Wanda’s magic when it yanks her to the edge of the bed in a swarm of crimson. The only thing that keeps her from riding that momentum and tumbling face-first into Wanda’s abdomen is a strong grip around her throat, a slender thigh fitting snugly between her legs. 

A couple months ago, the suddenness of it might’ve unnerved her—triggered some defensive countermeasure in an effort to neutralize the perceived threat. 

But everything about this is familiar; it’s _Wanda_. 

The taste of her that lingers on Natasha’s tongue, the familiar fit of her smooth palm tightening around her throat… There's nothing for her to fear as Wanda leans down to catch her lips in a desperate kiss that all too quickly becomes feverish. She doesn’t feel the need to fight when Wanda’s thigh nudges her most sensitive parts through the dampened lace of her panties and pure unadulterated pleasure zips its way up her spine like lightning, eliciting a quiet whimper from her that Wanda’s all too eager to stifle with her mouth. 

She’s more than a little lightheaded when Wanda eventually pulls back, loosening her grip around Natasha’s throat even as she uses it to gently guide her back into a horizontal position. Natasha’s chest heaves as she inhales deeply, her thoughts flooded with relief at being permitted to breathe fresh air once more.

“Safe word?” Wanda questions gently, removing her hand from Natasha’s throat and crawling up the length of her body until she’s _there_ , hovering just inches above her. 

Natasha makes a conscious effort to even out her breathing. “Красный.” Red. Red like Wanda’s magic; red like Natasha’s favorite leather jacket, the very same which Wanda wore during the battle for Sokovia. 

Wanda rewards her with a kiss—gentle and chaste, nothing more than a quick peck before she’s planting wet, open-mouthed kisses down the length of Natasha’s neck, stopping here and there to bite her hard enough to bruise. She then traverses further down with her mouth, methodical yet covetous, the not-so-gentle movements of her hands over Natasha’s breasts and stomach making her hips buck involuntarily with want. 

Wanda’s impulsive by nature, hot-headed and impatient—but when she gets like this, it’s different. She takes her time in a way even Natasha finds somewhat impressive, drawing the whole thing out as long as she possibly can. It’s therapeutic for her, Natasha knows, though there’s also a significantly less rational motivator behind it—staking her claim, as it were. 

She takes her time on Natasha’s body, mapping out every dip and curve, marking angry red marks that will inevitably give way to purplish bruising all over. She does this because the roar in her chest only ever seems to quiet when her ownership (a bit of an illusion as it may be) is splayed so clearly across the body of her lover. She does it because it soothes her: seeing the marks she can make, the power she can exert even when all the rest of it feels as if it’s slipping uncontrollably out of reach. 

And Natasha… well. Natasha can’t really complain, because she’s often known the pain (when applied correctly) to augment the pleasure, driving her to staggering heights of bliss—particularly where Wanda is concerned. The sensations are so intense when Wanda gets like this—ravenous and mercurial, visibly clawing at the jagged edges of her self-restraint even as everything else within her begs for her to do away with it entirely. 

Once upon a time, that scared Natasha. A hell of a lot more than she’d like to admit. 

In many ways, it still does. 

But she’s come to accept that the fear is what makes it feel like this, all-consuming and utterly intoxicating and intensely pleasurable beyond words can say; that the fear is what makes it _matter_. For whatever reason, Wanda likes it when it matters. (And maybe, just maybe, Natasha’s starting to like it when it matters, too.)

She’s pulled back to the present as Wanda yanks down her panties with a swift tug, holds Natasha’s legs apart with swirls of unyielding crimson, and drags her tongue entrance to clit through slick folds with enough pressure to make Natasha gasp. 

There’s zero hesitation in her motions—not that Natasha expects any, but it’s like being hit by a wall of rock-hard brick all the same.

All the air leaves her lungs in a rush, her back snaps up from the mattress into a perfect arch as though she’s been struck by lightning. She can feel herself spasming around nothing while Wanda’s voracious tongue circles torturously around her clit—depriving her of the stimulation she so desperately wants while simultaneously drawing her closer and closer to an absolutely earth-shattering peak. 

Natasha does all she can to stifle the wanton noises that threaten to escape her, but it’s a futile effort and she knows it. 

A couple minutes later sees Wanda’s lips closing in to suction deliciously around her clit, the sudden ministration flinging her over the edge into euphoria without a hint of warning. A whimpered cry escapes her as her climax hits in a tidal wave of sensation, and it’s all she can do to keep herself somewhat lucid whilst it surges throughout her being; a force of _fucking_ nature in its own right. 

She comes down in a haze of rapture, like what she’d imagine walking on clouds to feel like as a child. 

And yet history repeats itself, for the sensation is just fleeting as it’d been back then. 

Wanda’s tongue doesn’t let up where it laves various patterns over and around her twitching clit. Natasha squirms in vain against wisps of coral-red magic much stronger than she, her senses overloading with a too-intense sort of pleasure that compounds all too quickly into an unbearable pain. 

It’s wondrous and terrible; it’s too much, too much, too _much_ —Natasha’s safe word lingers in her mind, and she does not use it. She doesn't want to. It already hurts so badly in a way that’s so horrifically _good_ , and yet, she knows that they have only just begun. (Which is precisely what she wants.)

— — 

Three orgasms later finds her in an entirely new position—balanced on her knees and forearms amidst a mess of sheets; ass up, face down; moaning obscenely into a pillow as an utterly insatiable Wanda plays idly with the jeweled plug stretching her most private hole. 

“God, you are so beautiful like this, Natasha,” Wanda breathes out reverently, punctuating her statement with a harsh twist of the plug to make Natasha whine. “Desperate and compliant, taking only as much as I give.”

Natasha’s shoulders tremble with a dizzying combination of pleasure and exertion, copious evidence of her own arousal dripping down her thighs. “Wanda— _fuck_ ,” she curses as Wanda tugs harshly on the base of the toy, only to hold it steady where her puckered hole stretches around its widest part. 

“Safe word?” Wanda questions hoarsely, her free hand tracing idle patterns down the sweat-damp groove of her spine. 

Natasha clenches her jaw. “Крас—"

All of a sudden, Wanda yanks the plug the rest of the way out in a rush, and Natasha promptly chokes mid-speech. 

“I did not quite catch that." 

Natasha’s definitely getting her back for that later. “Красный,” she manages through gritted teeth, then shudders as Wanda drizzles a generous share of cool lube between her cheeks. 

Willowy fingertips idly trace between the reddened folds of her ruthlessly overstimulated cunt and steadfastly upwards, gathering dollops of gel before promptly sinking two fingers into her puckered hole. 

“O- _Oh_.” Natasha pants heavily into the pillow at the sudden onslaught of sensation, reflexively trying to fuck herself back onto Wanda’s fingers—but alas, no matter how much she strains herself, how persistently she squirms, Wanda’s magic holds her steady.

“Good,” Wanda purrs, withdrawing both fingers from her clenching hole with an obscene wet noise that makes Natasha's face _burn_.

It seems like less than a second passes before something blunt begins prodding at her back entrance, gentle yet demanding in the same breath. 

Wanda’s patience is running thin (which is good because Natasha’s has long since run out). She can feel it in the way her hands (wet with a mixture of lube and Natasha’s honeyed slick) hasten to grab her cheeks, pulling them obscenely apart as she urges her hips forth, making Natasha groan when the puckered ring of her hole _finally_ gives way to the very tip of the dildo’s bulbous head. 

The head pops in, and Wanda’s sinking the rest of the silicone length inside her with a trembling groan, inch by inch until her trim hips are flush against Natasha’s backside. 

The burn of it is tremendous; Natasha is positively beside herself with how much she _feels_ —the slow friction, the glorious stretch, the way each and every sensation seems magnified tenfold by the inherent perversion of it all. She feels utterly _molten_ as it fills her, stretching that forbidden place between her cheeks so intensely, she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Wanda exhales roughly, sounding just as altogether devastated (if not more so) as Natasha feels right now. “I can’t believe you took all of it.”

Natasha just _keens_ amidst a heavy fog of potent ecstasy clouding any semblance of rational thought, wordlessly pleading for more, more, _more_. 

A buzzing sound registers distantly amidst the pounding of her own heartbeat in her ears, and Natasha finds it within herself to be momentarily thrown. What—?

Something solid presses firmly against her cunt, vibrations erupting against her clit, and Natasha _wails_ at the agonizing pleasure that tears its way through her spasming body. It’s like pouring gasoline on a five-alarm fire, the way it makes the blinding urgency within her swell to truly staggering heights, blue-tongued flames licking at her viscous insides. 

Some distant part of her catalogues Wanda’s hands still prying her cheeks apart, and concludes that it must be her magic holding a vibrator up between Natasha’s arousal-slick thighs in a swirl of crimson—but honestly, she can’t find it in herself to care all that much. 

Wanda is dragging the length of dildo out of her with almost pitiful ease before roughly slamming it back hilt-deep inside her—quickly establishing a brutal pace that has Natasha’s eyes rolling back in her head even while the vibrator buzzing steadily away against her clit rips shriek after strangled shriek from her battered throat.

Fuck, she’s not going to last long… not that that’s ever deterred Wanda before from fucking her through climax after climax until she safe words or passes out. (9 times out of 10, it’s the latter.) 

Really, Natasha wouldn’t have it any other way. 

— —

**Author's Note:**

> красный | _krasniyyy_ | red
> 
> i've never written an anal sex scene before. wild 
> 
> so i'm just gonna go hide forever now but feel free to let me know what you thought cause i remain Very Unsure about this💀
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/) or just search me up @ultralightdumbass to come talk to me there!)


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